


One More Mile (Five times Sam and Dean didn't hunt)

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-15
Updated: 2009-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes they find a normal that doesn't need a disclaimer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Mile (Five times Sam and Dean didn't hunt)

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Written for musesfool's birthday. Title is from Tom McRae. Beta is by laurificus. Dean's opinions on Coldplay do not necessarily reflect those of the management.

  
**1.**

They'd been in Pensacola, Florida since January, the balance of the school year. It was enough time for Dean to put away a little money from his job as a waiter at the country club, for him and Dad to go after half a dozen ghost ship legends and a couple of water creatures, for Sam to be able to get to know the other students and his teachers for a change.

Dad had been away for three days, some hunt up in Mississippi, when Dean dropped the brown paper bag onto the kitchen table in front of Sam.

Looking dazed, Sam raised his head, attention dragging away from his history book. "What's this?" He nudged the bag with his pencil.

"Can't study all the time, Sammy." Dean pushed the bag closer to his brother.

"I've got this massive test on Monday." Sam's chest heaved with a sigh and he threaded his long fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. Dean wasn't sure when his brother had gotten so elongated; he didn't used to be. As a kid he'd been more compact.

"But it's your birthday today, jackass," Dean said, making sure he sounded as insulting as possible.

Sam blinked, actually looking surprised. "So this is..." His gaze went to the bag.

"It's a present." Dean had folded down the top of the bag as neatly as he could. When Sam didn't move, Dean let out a rude noise. "For you, moron."

Standing up, Sam unfolded the top of the bag and reached in to draw out the square white console and the controller. "You got me a Nintendo?"

"Used, but it works. The guy in the store was playing on it when I bought it. Got a couple of games, too. Here." Dean rummaged in the bag and pulled out several cartridges. "So, you going to let me kick your ass at Mortal Kombat?"

"You wish."

They played video games for the rest of the afternoon, ordered pizza for dinner, and stayed up until two a.m. Some of that was more video games, and some of that was talking. Turned out Sam had a crush on this girl in his history class who was also into soccer. After Dean told Sam a very funny (very hot) story about the girl he'd gone to a party with last week, a story that made Sam blush, Dean changed the subject and got Sam to explain what the hell was going on in Kosovo instead.

Sam fell asleep first, head pillowed on his bent arm leaning against the armrest of the scratchy couch.

Dean put a blanket over him and tugged at Sam so he was lying flat on the couch in what looked like a more comfortable position. In his sleep, Sam mumbled and kicked Dean in the knee.

All arms and legs and obnoxious too-smart brain. "Happy birthday, kiddo," Dean said softly.

Maybe he should've gotten a cake, he thought.

Sam mumbled something else, turning over. It sounded like _thank you._

  
 **2.**

A few days after Oasis Plains, they stumbled across what sounded like a haunting at a movie theater. The Circle Grand had opened in 1939, had been closed down a few times, used as a lecture hall, porn theater, and playhouse, and under the current ownership showed a mix of first run and classic Hollywood films. Sam spent an hour and a half in the local library before he dug up the story of a knife fight that had broken out between two teenagers in 1964. One of the boys had died, falling off the balcony.

According to the old man who sold tickets in the glass booth out front, the spirit had haunted the place ever since, but folks didn't always notice since the spirit pretty much did as it pleased. Sometimes it was quiet for years, and then it would flicker back into existence, frightening moviegoers with a cold breath on the back of their necks, or appearing as a pale figure that flickered like the glow of the projector.

While Dean walked along the rows of seats below, Sam swept the balcony. The EMF didn't register so much as a blip. He tapped the meter against his thigh; he was pretty sure he was using it right, but Dean was always better with the mechanical stuff.

"Anything?" Dean called up, his voice echoing in the large space.

"Nope," Sam shouted back.

Red velvet worn away to bald patches covered the seats, and the gilt molding along the ceiling seemed dull. One of the old photos in the lobby was in color, showing the scarlet and gold vivid and bright.

This job would take time; they had to be certain before they went and dug up some poor kid's grave. That was how he and Dean wound up buying tickets to all the films showing that day. It was Dean's idea: to sit and watch movies until the ghost decided to take a bow.

The theater was having an eighties revival month, so with the sweet scent of buttered popcorn surrounding them, they settled in as the lights dimmed and the Paramount Pictures logo dissolved into a mountain.

They watched _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ and _The Temple of Doom_ , then took a break for lunch. Dean got pissed off at Sam for saying that the second movie wasn't very good, but was in agreement that if Spielberg made a fourth one, that would be _awesome_.

 _The Last Crusade_ began a little after sunset. It felt extraordinary to Sam to eat popcorn and slouch in his seat and feel irritated at the kids down in front who just wouldn't shut up, to listen to the murmurs of the few other moviegoers in the theater, the rattle as Dean shook his box of Jujyfruits to get the flavors he wanted. Sam had almost forgotten that life had ever been more than full days spent driving; motel rooms that smelled like musty carpet; abandoned houses and swarms of killer bugs; blood and shapeshifters.

He missed Jess, a steady low pulse of loss that sharpened or quieted but never went away.

But eating popcorn and watching this movie with Dean, as if he was six years old and not waiting for the spirit of a dead kid to appear, this was okay.

  
 **3.**

After that whole thing with Madison, some downtime seemed like a really good idea. Of course, they'd had a hunt, but Dean had noticed how Sam had snapped his attention back into focus, how he went after it. For a few days, he'd lost the blank stare and the sinking into the kind of quiet that was beyond the usual kind you got when you were stuck with someone else in the car for days on end, always sharing a motel room.

Once the ghost was done with, though, and they were back on the highway, Sam went back to the brooding thing. Not that Dean blamed him. The thought of Madison made even his stomach twist, and Dean lived with the whisper at the back of his mind that said they could've looked harder, could've tried more, could've waited longer.

They stopped at a hot dog stand for lunch. A short blonde girl leaned against her car as she ate, eyes too sharp to be innocent as they appeared to be. She cocked her head like she knew stuff before you'd even have the wit to think to ask it. She was cute in a scary, mace-in-her-shoulder-bag kind of way. Dean was just formulating his approach when she finished her hot dog, licked the mustard off her fingers ( _Jesus_ , okay, she wasn't cute, she was hot), and got into her car and drove off. Dean was almost ninety-nine percent sure she looked right at him, and might've grinned.

Sam kept eating like he wouldn't be able to tell if he was munching on celery or meat.

Yeah, enough was enough. Sam's default setting was already emo even when he wasn't torn up inside. Dean watched the way he ducked his head, hiding behind shaggy hair, slouching as if he felt he had to apologize for being tall. It was all Dean could do not to smack him upside the head, to jolt him, get him to stand up straight, to move, to get pissed off. Something that would bring Sam back into focus.

Heck, he'd try anything.

Dean smacked his little brother in the back of the head. "C'mon." He tossed his napkin in the trash and headed towards the highway. "Hey, sasquatch, I said c'mon."

"What?" Sam moved after him reluctantly. "Where're we going?"

"Dude. The sun is shining, and we're in California. Where do you think we're going?"

Across the road, there was an opening where a set of wooden steps took them down the cliff to a rocky beach. Sam had always loved the water when they were kids, could swim like he was part selkie.

It was actually too rough for swimming, but they kicked off their shoes and stood in the breakers with their jeans rolled up. Sam's legs looked even more ridiculously long with his calves exposed. He bent to pick up a shell, frowned as he turned it over in his fingers, intent and trying to learn it, the way Sam approached almost anything new, and even some things that were already familiar.

The salty flavor of the hotdog and potato chips still in his mouth, now mingling with the taste of the beach air, Dean wandered closer to the rock jetty. The wind was strong, the particles of sand stinging his ankles. He glanced over at Sam, and saw that he'd stopped wading. He was facing the ocean, tide around his ankles, and he had that blank stare again.

Dean grabbed a handful of seaweed, walked back to Sam, and draped it over the back of Sam's neck.

The yell Sam let out was deeply, deeply satisfying.

"You shit!" He darted after Dean, who was already tearing away along the tideline.

Hands shoved Dean hard in the middle of his back, and then he was in the water, his jeans and the bottom half of his shirt soaked. A large wave chose that moment to break over his head. Dean spat out salt water and scrambled to his feet.

Sam still had seaweed stuck to his shirt, and he stood with his arms folded, chin up. "Enjoy your bath?" He said, straight-faced.

Dean wrung out his shirt, seaweed clinging to his jeans and his bare arms. He pulled off a clump and threw it at Sam, who dodged, then threw another clump at Dean, who held still, letting it catch him in the face. Sam grinned and started to laugh.

Wriggling his toes in the sand, Dean yanked the seaweed off and fought not to smile as his chest grew warm.

"Sure, ha ha, very funny," he said.

"Well, I thought so." Sam coughed into his fist.

  
 **4.**

"Crunch'n'Munch, Cool Ranch Doritoes, nacho cheese, a six pack of Red Bull, Oreos..." Sam knew his voice sounded nagging, and didn't care. Somebody had to nudge Dean on occasion to keep him on the rails, and that somebody was always Sam.

Dean let out a whoop and ran down the aisle with the cart. "C'mon man. Got a lot of hunting to do. Have to keep our energy up."

"God, what are you, five?"

Sam had been feeling more and more lately like Dean was the younger one. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, while Dean raced to the end of the aisle and took the corner fast. At least Walmart was big enough that Dean was unlikely to mow down some poor, unsuspecting shopper unlucky enough to be in his way.

There was a kelpie in Crescent Lake. Not to mention Sam had a promising lead on a book about the crossroads demon legend. But they'd decided to stop to load up on supplies, which, according to Dean, meant a lot of junk food.

A few aisles over, Sam saw a little boy of about six sighing and rolling his eyes while his little sister stared squarely up at Dean. She looked like she was about three, her dark hair held up in two small pigtails with plastic barrettes in the shape of butterflies.

The little boy tried to take her hand and pull her away, but the toddler was having none of it. She twitched away from him, and still staring at Dean, she pointed up towards the top shelf.

"That?" Dean touched a box.

The little girl shook her head.

Dean moved his hand to the next item.

Again, she shook her head.

"Sorry," the boy muttered. "She wants the Tastykakes. I think." He turned to his sister. "No way Mom is going to let us have those."

In answer, the toddler folded her arms. Her eyes widened as she stared up at Dean like he was her last hope in the entire uncaring, cold, cruel universe.

"Jeez," Dean said. "Stop lookin' at me like that." He took a box of Tastykakes from the top shelf and handed them to her.

The girl hugged the box to her chest, and then she beamed up at Dean a moment before she ran off down the aisle, pigtails bouncing, her beleaguered-looking brother in her wake.

"We need socks," Sam said, shoving Dean in the middle of his back to steer him towards the clothing, away from the junk food.

"Beef jerky," said Dean.

Sighing, Sam waited while Dean put several packets of beef jerky into the cart. Somehow, a box of Lucky Charms wound up in there too although Sam didn't remember going to the cereal aisle.

On the way to clothing, they passed the furniture section, where Dean stopped to test drive a massage recliner.

"Oh, man, you gotta try this."

"Dean..." Sam heard the whine creep into his own voice.

But Dean wasn't listening. He had his eyes closed as he hit a button on the control pad. "Oh, yeah," he said.

Sam glanced around, hoping no other shoppers were nearby to hear the indecent sounds his brother was making. He left Dean to it, and went to pick out some socks.

He dismissed one brand because they looked scratchy and thin, even though they were cheaper than the thicker ones that had more cotton in them. His brain tuned into the musak playing over the loudspeakers for a moment as he smelled whatever they used on the floors, and the new plastic and the factory chemicals on the clothes. The store was clean, bright, and normal in a way that didn't seem to need a disclaimer.

Holding two packages of socks, Sam went back to where Dean was still in the massage recliner but it looked as if he'd put the setting on low. His body was still, his arms stretched out along the armrests. Dean, who seemed to live in a state of perpetual motion, looked as calm as if he'd been sitting there for hours and had the game on the TV in his own living room, plenty of beer in the fridge.

"Hey," Sam said, and stretched himself out on a wooden deck chair.

"Hey." Dean glanced sideways at him. He started to sit up.

But Sam motioned with his hand. "Nah." He shrugged. "Let's take ten."

"Works for me," Dean said, settling deeper into the recliner.

  
 **5.**

Even after the world didn't end, Sam showed no signs of wanting to stop. With the same intense focus he'd given to research and battling Lucifer, he immersed himself in the cleaning up. Dean knew it was some residual guilt-type thing, and kept trying to get Sam to ease off. There were plenty of people stepping forward to rebuild burned homes and buildings and entire towns: people who once upon a time thought demons were the stuff of horror movies and who now knew the hidden uses of rock salt and rituals.

The work actually felt good--Dean kind of enjoyed using a hammer and paintbrush and power tools instead of guns and crosses and silver knives. He got blisters that turned into calluses, settling into new places on his hands.

At the end of a long day, they went to the local diner to eat. Dean's cheeseburger was halfway to his mouth when Sam said, leaning back in his chair, "Okay."

Dean lowered the burger. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, I think we should go somewhere. Like, a vacation. I guess. As in, not work. For a few days."

"Now you're talking." Dean bit into his cheeseburger, using his free hand to sprinkle more salt on his fries (because really, you could never have enough). "Where do you want to go?"

"I have an idea," said Sam.

"And...?"

"You have to let me drive."

"Um, no."

"Not the whole way. But after a certain point, I want you to switch off with me, no questions asked, and let me drive."

"Fine."

"And--I kind of don't want you to know where we're going so I'm going to ask you to blindfold yourself the last few hours of the trip."

Dean choked on his soda. "'Scuse me?"

"Just. Humor me. Please?"

"Jesus, you're weird."

The next morning they started out. For the first fifty miles, they bickered about the music, even though Dean was driving and the family rules were very clear. Sam still had that damned iPod jack, but Dean wouldn't let him plug it in.

"Coldplay is not a piece of crap." Sam slouched, arms folded, looking like a petulant ten-year-old.

"Yeah, they are."

"They sound a little like U2."

"Uh-huh. The way cool-whip tastes a little bit like real whipped cream. Not." Dean turned up the volume on the Scorpions song that was playing.

For another fifty miles, they argued, and Dean knew neither of them really wanted to win or even had a point, no matter how vehemently Sam gestured or how much Dean cited examples.

They slept in the Impala, Sam stretched out in the back, Dean curled up in the passenger seat up front, because a lot of the motels along the way were full, or had been burned down during the war.

About two hours out on the second day, Sam made him pull over. They were in desert country, not too far from Flagstaff. Dean had already figured it out, but didn't let on; he just slid across the bench to the passenger side when Sam got out, and tied on the blindfold.

Even though he already knew, when they stopped and Sam's hand gripped his arm to help him out of the car, Dean's chest suddenly went tight. He took off the blindfold and stared at the dizzying open space ahead of them, the layers of browns and reds and blues.

Neither of them said anything; they leaned their arms on the railing of the viewing platform and watched the sunset turn the sky to something completely unreal and brilliant.

~end


End file.
